


swayed by the wind, swayed by desire

by absofruitlynot



Category: Godless (TV 2017)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-12
Updated: 2020-09-12
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:00:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26416051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/absofruitlynot/pseuds/absofruitlynot
Summary: The moment her lips touch his skin, anything beyond this small corner of the territory disappears—and there is only this, only them, only the soft touch of her fingers on his jaw.
Relationships: Alice Fletcher/Roy Goode
Comments: 4
Kudos: 28





	swayed by the wind, swayed by desire

**Author's Note:**

> three years later: if nobody else is gonna write it then I guess I will! !
> 
> title from "The Trouble With Wanting" by Joy Williams

The moment her lips touch his skin, anything beyond this small corner of the territory disappears—and there is only this, only them, only the soft touch of her fingers on his jaw.

  
He had hesitated for so long—it had been too soon, then too precarious, too easy to believe that this could be how it should be. And he had thought now it was too late, but then she had walked to him and known – as always – without having to say a word.

  
She lifts her head to kiss him, softly but fully, and he is putty in her hands as she continues on her mission, pulling his shirt up, skimming her hands over his skin. He misses her touch acutely when she removes her hands, even as she holds his gaze with eyes full of intent, unbuttoning her blouse at a slow, deliberate pace.

  
He is first struck by how inconceivably beautiful she is—then by the understanding of that part of her she had wanted him to know but could not tell him. He runs his fingers down the raised, faded pink line, gives himself a moment to consider the wounds they both carry. He aches to tell her what she is to him, the peace he has found here, how often he had dreamed of dark hair and pale, luminous skin since he’d woken to find himself in her barn.

  
She is watching him, noting the slope of his eyelashes as his gaze sweeps down, then up to her lips. He feels her heartbeat matching his own: strong, nervous, galloping out of their reach; it strikes a match inside him, and the longing surges between them. He closes the distance between them then and kisses her with a boldness he had not felt before (but with a surety she had recognized in everything he does).

  
Everything he has been holding back is given new, brilliant life, and he cannot touch enough of her—his fingertips skim her ribs beneath her open shirt as his left hand weaves itself into the curls at the back of her neck. The warmth of her bared skin meeting his sparks a joy unlike anything he had known for years; it grounds him, renews him.

He backs her against the stall door, conscious of her exposed back but desperate to mold himself fully to her. Their kisses are fervent and searching, each one beginning to soothe this ache they share.

Her hands sweep down from his neck, across his torso, exploring the taut muscles of his waist and lower back. She runs her fingers just under the waist of his pants, dragging them indulgently over his hipbones, and – forward. The kiss breaks briefly with his gasp as his desire spikes; he rolls his hips into hers, letting her know how much he wants – needs – her, and she holds him there, firmly against her. He bites her lip, gently, then pulls her from the wall and further into the seclusion of the barn.

They continue to kiss as they sink down, and it isn’t until she is stretching back into the hay-covered blanket that he realizes how much more dignity and comfort she deserves than this.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, I—”

She cuts him off with a sharp glare that plainly says _if you call me ma’am one more time_ — and he shrugs with a smile that is wide and not particularly innocent. He slides his hand once more to the back of her neck and pulls her lips back to his as he eases himself on top of her.

She pushes her body up against his, desperate to feel his warm chest against her skin. He reaches his free hand between them, pausing to run his fingers down her stomach before tugging at the waist of her trousers, looking for a way to unfasten them. She smiles against his lips, slipping her hands down to help him.

His hands tremble, just a little, as he takes her in, lit by the glow of the lamp. She watches those hands as they touch her knees, slide up her thighs—those distracting, roughened hands she had watched, surreptitiously, for weeks—and back, slowly, up to her jaw for a long and open-mouthed kiss.

She is amazed by his tenderness—or perhaps it is not so astounding, she supposes, thinking to the care he had shown her horses, her land, her son. That a man with a life such as his could kiss a neck so softly—a throat—a collarbone—nearly defied comprehension. She strokes her fingertips through his cropped hair as his lips trail reverently from her clavicle to the base of her scar.

His thumbs press into her hips as he drags his mouth, finally, up to her breast, the tickle of his scruff against the sensitive skin sending shivers all over her body. One small bite and she gasps, and she feels his chuckle echo all the way through her ribs.

Her hands, having been lingering indulgently on his shoulder blades, skim down his back—taking several breaks, both voluntary and involuntary—to push at the waist of his pants. He almost does not notice, his attention currently so firmly on the expansion and fall of her rib cage beneath the impossible softness of her skin, but soon he is wriggling out of his own trousers and her hands are landing resolutely on that hard, vulnerable part of him. She is rewarded with another bite and a tightening of his fingers around her upper thighs.

Her hands are like his own – work roughened, cautious – but here she is soft. Keeping his lips on the elegant edge of her collarbone, he moves his fingers to her sex, begins to stroke her. They continue like this for some time, until she grips the bones of his hips between her knees and cants her own hips up towards him, desperate for more of him. He smiles against her skin.

At long last, he eases into her—takes a moment – they have both been so lonely for so long—and he looks down and catches her eye, making sure she wants this, that it is real, that this is not a dream he will wake from in some desolate dawn.

She smiles up at him; it is a soft, subtle smile, but it is almost more than he can bear. His head dips down and he whispers—gasps—her name in the hollow beneath her jaw. She wonders, blissfully, if this is the first time he has called her by her Christian name—a thought cut short when he thrusts and everything vanishes but the feel of him.

There is an openness to her loving that takes him somewhat by surprise; she arches her back and neck and sighs in delight, she crosses her heels behind his back and digs her fingers into the back of his neck, and she kisses him again and again. Eventually she tightens her knees again and moves to roll them over; he happily obliges and soon she is moving above him, spanning her hands around his ribs, smiling softly to herself as her gaze takes him in. He cannot take his eyes off of her.

His hand returns to weave itself into the hair at the nape of her neck, hanging on for dear life, his other hand wrapped firmly around her waist, clutching her to him. Even as the pleasure begins to overtake him and cloud his mind, the thought of how good, how right this is ricochets through him, threatens to overwhelm him until a sharp, desperate moan from her pulls him back to the moment.

His hips snap up to match her rhythm and then she’s clenching around him, stifling a cry, falling forward to kiss him.

“Roy,” she whispers, and he shatters.

After, she lies draped over him, softly tracing the pads of her fingers over his scars. He strokes her hair and wishes he could speak; but there’s only one thing he wants to say and he can’t bring himself to do it.

She’s beginning to doze off when he slips away from her; the sense of bereavement is immediate but brief after she sees that he’s grabbing a blanket from his pack and turning back to her.

“’S’gettin’ cold,” he offers, sheepishly. She hadn’t noticed. She looks over his body – really drinks him in, commits him to memory – as he walks back towards her and pushes the inevitable to the back of her mind. When he’s joined her again, she weaves herself around him, holds him there against her heart, breathes him in.

* * *

When she wakes, it is just light enough for her to see his eyes, watchful and sad in the dawn. Drowsily, she lifts her hand to stroke his cheek, and he ducks his head into the crook of her neck and pulls her flush against him. This warm bliss lasts only for a few moments before he pulls away with a sense of finality.

Too soon, he has redressed and repacked, and he is leading his horse and preparing to leave with as much determination as he can muster. She’s tried to busy herself and face this as practically and unflappably as she does everything else, but she follows him in the corner of her eye, worried he’ll slip away without her seeing.

He pauses.

The moment he stood up, he had told himself he wouldn’t do it, had known it would make it damn near impossible to leave, but before he jumps up onto his horse he is finding himself turning, pulling her to him with one arm around her waist, and kissing her.

Her hands barely have time to find purchase on the front of his shirt before he is pulling his lips back again. He presses his forehead to hers for the space of one breath, then turns swiftly and swings himself into the saddle.

He nods to her briefly, and she nods back, neither of them able nor much inclined to speak. He tugs at the reins and urges his horse forward, and then they are running, disappearing into the gray morning light. She gazes after him, wondering whether Truckee will ever understand why he had to go, and why she let him. She doesn’t wonder what could come of it if he’d stayed.

_I will kiss your image._

She allows herself a moment, one prayer, then sets about collecting herself to face the day that’s breaking.

**Author's Note:**

> nothing I love more than two beautiful, sad people kissing


End file.
